Sister Marta said, “Was nein?” What did I mean by that terrible “No?” But I only cried and kept swaying back and forth. The sisters and girls came running out of the kitchen to see what was the matter.
Sister Marta sent them away, but they stood in the doorway looking at me. Sister pulled up a chair for me to sit down, but I broke loose and darted out into the hallway straight to the spot where a large picture of Hitler hung on the wall. I wanted to break the glass and destroy his portrait—in my frenzied grief it seemed the only way I could revenge myself on that murderer. Sister Marta seized my uplifted hands and held on to me as tightly as she could.
“Someone will see you,” she whispered, her lips close to my ear. “They will call the Gestapo and have you arrested!”
“They can arrest me—kill me—do whatever they want!”
Sister Marta was afraid that the patients would hear the commotion and that those that could would come out into the corridor. She covered my mouth with her hand and pulled me into the bathroom. There was a chair right under the medicine cabinet and she forced me to sit down. She stroked my face and kissed me, trying to calm me, asking what had happened to upset me so.
I merely told her that my mother had died. I wanted so much to tell her the whole truth, to cast from me this hateful mask of pretense. But something held me back; some unseen power, some unheard voice told me to keep silent now. I recalled my dear mother’s words: “When you come through this alive, remember what they did to us. Remember, and tell the world how we were destroyed. May you never forget what happened to our nation.”
Knowing her wish, how could I give myself up? Someone had to survive. Someone had to bear witness to these murders. Someone had to revenge them, yes; someone had to cry for revenge for killing so many children . . .
Meanwhile, Sister Maria made me some tea and kept talking to me as to a child. Back in the small kitchen, she finished unpacking the parcel while I just sat staring ahead with unseeing eyes. “Now, look here,” Sister said, “Here is a ham and sausage at the bottom of the box. And here’s a pair of nice boots—and some yarn and a crochet hook and knitting needles. You can make something for yourself.”
Even thin Mary—the Nazi—stood by, trying to comfort me, telling me how useful these things would be; now I wouldn’t have to freeze. But I cried and cried, and struggled with one obsessing thought: How could I wreak revenge—when would I be able to pay back the Germans, the Nazis, for their evil deeds? Sister Marta at last persuaded me to go back to my room and get some rest. Slowly, as though coming back from a funeral, I found my way back to my room. It seemed doubly gloomy to me now, and I felt that I had had enough of this place. Everything at this moment seemed unbearable. I lay down upon the bed and did not get up even when I heard the lunch bell.
I remember that Lena brought me something to eat. Everyone knew now about my parcel and the tragic news of my mother’s death. Lena tried to comfort me, saying at least I had two left in my family, my father and sister! The irony of it was that I had to thank her for her consoling words and nod my head in agreement. When Lena left, I lay there, staring at the ceiling, and unable yet to realize that my mother and sister—my whole life, everything in the world to me—were no longer alive . . . I tried to imagine how they had perished, how they felt—what their thoughts were at the moment before they died . . . Did they have any idea that I was still living somewhere? Or, had I not escaped from the ghetto, would I have been able to help them in some way? Or would I be now, as they were, dead in the ruins of our home, burned alive? Did I, in any case, have the right to save my life, alone?
But, as the days and weeks passed, the worst of the pain went away. I did not lose hope in myself or in my mission to survive. I began to venture outside the hospital, sometimes without the P on my clothing, to visit Marie Kraus or Vera, a Czech girl I had met in the infirmary while ill after the holidays. These visits helped to cheer me. March 1944 was almost at an end, and slowly each day became warmer. Outdoors the snow was gradually thawing under the rays of a pale sun; there was more daylight and the nights grew shorter. Surely, each day brought us closer to the lovely springtime weather—and hope! The battlefield at the front began to recede toward the German boundary. There were rumors of expected bombings. Now the United States, England, France, and Russia were united against the Germans. One could feel the end drawing near . . .
The construction of bomb shelters in Stuttgart gained impetus. There were public shelters along the streets and in various office buildings. The hospital itself started construction on a shelter. As it was situated on a hilltop, the best place for a shelter was the slope right by the rear exit. Work on the shelter proceeded very quickly, aided by the natural contour of the terrain. To my great astonishment one morning, when I looked out of the window, I saw some ten or a dozen men, wearing what seemed like a prison uniform and guarded by German policemen, busily digging into the hillside. Slave laborers, of course! We girls took turns bringing them food.
The opening in the side of the hill grew larger day by day, but it would take time to finish a shelter for more than one hundred people; it was to serve the sisters, the workers, the patients, and newborn infants. In it there would be room for beds, or at least cots, and for operating tables to be used in case of emergency. There would be chairs, cribs and carriages for infants, instrument cases and other such equipment. The ceiling would have to be high, so that there would be enough air for so many people to breathe.
The war and the bombing raids, however, did not conveniently wait until the hospital had completely finished its shelter. One night the siren began to wail after midnight and we all jumped out of our beds in wild excitement. Everyone from everywhere ran to the main building of the hospital, where the Sister Superior and other sisters gave instructions to go to the cellar.
The cellar filled up quickly. The critically ill patients were brought there first; then we began to bring in the children. “Die Kinder! Die Kinder!” everyone cried. We wheeled in the patients who had just undergone surgery. We checked every room, every ward. And the sirens kept on wailing . . . It had all happened so unexpectedly! When finally we were all clustered below, the cellar grew stiflingly hot; some patients started to cough, some gasped for air. Then the lights went out, and in the darkness we could hear the sisters praying. Some sisters got down on their knees on the dirt floor, imploring God to save the hospital, to spare the city.
We were in the cellar for about an hour before the sirens gave the “All Clear!” Now we helped our charges back to their places and returned to our rooms. We went to bed, but there was not much time left to sleep—if sleep was possible. We had to be up at five. In the morning we saw in all the faces around us the signs of terror and a sleepless night. Even though it had proved to be a false alarm, we could expect a real raid anytime—and the shelter was far from finished.
Meanwhile, summer was fast approaching. The gardens were in lovely bloom, the trees gave a translucent green shade—the entire world seemed to be called to life after the rigors of winter. And yet the people thought only of hiding. Who could think of walks in the fresh air and sunshine when the air raid sirens sounded more and more frequently?
Through Vera, the Czech girl I had met in the infirmary, I had been put in touch with some Czech youths who, apart from becoming good friends, brought me into their group of resistance workers against the Nazis. They entrusted me with the carrying out of certain projects, and I willingly accepted this responsibility. Frequently I was told to put packages into a garbage receptacle that stood in a side alley running off a street near the hospital, and I always had to do this late in the evening. Later, someone would come to pick up these packages; they knew exactly when the garbage was collected, and the pickup was effected beforehand so that the packages would not accidently be thrown into the refuse wagon. I was never told what was in those packages and I did not have the courage to ask. I only heard that the men knew about the contents but would not tell the girls in the underg
round, for fear that if we were caught we would be more likely to give the secret away—the men obviously having more toughness and endurance under torture. I assisted them with great pleasure and satisfaction, doing it more in memory of those whom the Nazis had murdered—including my own family—than for the living. I wanted so much to do something for my dear dead, and since I could not help them directly any longer, then at least I would help those who survived, never forgetting the others.
What a great satisfaction it gave me to be involved in this conspiracy! I felt my own self-esteem grow. I knew now that I was not merely trying to survive for my own personal entity, but at the same time I was doing something against the Nazis. Though I did not know the contents of the packages, I suspected that they contained, aside from food supplies for those in hiding, some kind of weapons or ammunition, secretly being smuggled to them. I later learned that they often contained bread for some German Jews hiding in a cellar nearby.
Yet the air raid sirens broke into our lives very frequently, disrupting even my sleeping hours. The race for the cellar shelter became a daily commonplace. Meantime, the real shelter was completed and the sisters and we workers had to help transfer the cots, tables, and various instruments there, and then the shelter became like a second hospital. It was about six or seven yards wide and about one hundred yards long; there was another door that led to a second shelter for mothers and infants, and the lying-in ward. Postoperative cases were taken directly to the shelter and remained there until they could be released. The shelter was lighted with small electric lamps set in the ceiling. It was rather high, but usually rather damp; the dampness could not be helped. In all, I would say that it was a very adequate shelter—but only if we had time to reach it after the first alarm sounded. However, that was something that the Administration could not cope with—no one really knew how soon the bombs would start to fall after the first warning siren. We were well organized and always ready to help the patients and perform our tasks.
The summer of 1944 went by somehow more swiftly than any other summer. With our hospital overflowing with patients—in part because other hospitals had been destroyed—we girls had to work even in other departments. I was assigned for a few hours before noon to a ward on the main floor.
The weeks flew by, amid racing to and from the shelter to the background wailing of the air raid sirens. I had not heard from my Czech friends for quite a while, and some instinct told me that something must have happened. No letter, no phone calls—as though they had vanished from the earth’s surface. Kanstatt, a small town nearby, was bombed, and the downtown section of Stuttgart had also been hit. Marie called the next day to ask about me and to find out if I had had any words from the Czechs. It was strange that they had not phoned to inquire how I was; here it was almost November, with no word from them. Their silence worried me. What could have happened? One day, I took half a day off from work to find out. Alas, I learned not only that Vera was nowhere to be found but also that Josef, a Czech fellow I had met who had so bravely immersed himself in resistance duties, had been taken by the Gestapo! I myself saw his ransacked room, and had to flee his enquiring landlord. In a daze I returned to the hospital. How could such a thing happen to such a brave man? I gave Sister Maria an encapsulated version of what had happened; she was sorry that my friends were nowhere to be found.
The next morning dawned cold and cloudy, and my mood matched the weather. When I reported for work, Sister Marta greeted me with a smile and said that she was happy that my worries were over. I looked at her dumbly, not knowing that she meant. Was the war over? She, on the other hand, did not know why I showed no reaction but stood there puzzled and silent.
“I gave them the umbrella,” she said by way of an explanation that was still unintelligible to me.
“Gave that to whom?”
“I gave my umbrella to our friends,” Sister said.
“My friends? Where? When? What?”
Sister was obviously mystified that I knew nothing. She said, “Last night, a man came here with a young woman. He was black and blue; bruised all over. She—she had been a patient here once. They waited for you, but could not stay longer. And as it was pouring, I gave them an umbrella.”
When I finished my work downstairs, I returned to the ward and started to clean the bathroom. As I bent over the tub, I heard some voices, among them Sister Marta’s.
“Hanka, here’s that umbrella I was talking about.” I turned around to see Sister standing in the doorway; behind her was Josef, my Czech friend. Sister had tears in her eyes. I looked at them, still finding it difficult to believe, not knowing what to say. And then the tears streamed from my eyes, too.
My friend was a pitiful sight. He had been beaten; his eyes were blackened, and bloody lumps were visible on his face. It struck me as strange that he did not extend his hand in greeting, but rather held it behind his back. When I held out my hand, he reluctantly took it and then—oh, God! I saw . . . the fingernails blackened, the fingers almost completely crushed. Sister Marta turned away and left us. I could not say a word.
But Josef broke the awkward silence. “It is by some miracle I stand in front of you.”
“What actually did happen?” I asked.
“We don’t have time to talk about it now. But you may be assured that they will pay for it, and soon.” He looked around to make sure that no one was listening.
“But how did it happen?”
“I’ll come next Sunday and we’ll talk about it then. God be with you! Just be patient, and have courage. The end is not far away.”
I thanked him for the visit. He stopped to say goodbye to Sister Marta, and then left. I stood still as though glued to one place. Sister observed my reactions and wagged her head in compassion.
“What a sight!” I managed to say. “God he was beaten to a pulp.”
“Why did they beat him so?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “You can blame it on the war, I suppose. We blame everything on the war.” I looked up at the portrait of Hitler and would have killed him with a glance, if I could.
The weather continued very poor. We met in the restaurant on the corner. Vera and another friend were with us, and we spent several hours in conversation. We talked in whispers, carefully. I learned a lot; it seemed that the Nazis had found some contraband weapons, and most likely someone had informed on the group. It was not known who.
Now we counted the months to the end of the war. Because of the constant bombardments, we could not meet frequently. The air raid alarms were often sounded several times a day—not to mention during the nights. On the quiet evenings I stayed in my room and wrote in my diary.
One night I lay awake, reliving in my mind all the tragedy that I had lived through thus far. I could not sleep, though Lena in the bed across the room was snoring. Suddenly, the wails of the siren broke in on my consciousness—they seemed louder than ever before. I jumped out of bed in the dark and called out to Lena.
“I’m awake!” Lena answered, not making any attempt to rise.
“Lena, get up quickly!” I shouted. From the corridor we could hear the sisters calling out, “Get up!” There were sounds of running footsteps. I reached for my coat, and for Lena’s, urging her to hurry. The sirens continued to wail as if foreseeing some great disaster.
Oddly, Lena turned her face to the wall and refused to get up. “I’m tired,” she muttered. “Let all Stuttgart go up in flames; I don’t care.”
But we had to get out of our room; we could not disregard the alarm. So, heavy and big though she was, I tore Lena from the featherbed and began pulling on her hand. I don’t know how I managed to get her out of bed, but at last she stood up and put on her coat, slippers, and stockings, but not her dress. We ran through the garden snow towards the shelter. The hospital was in darkness; I saw no one outside. We were apparently the last ones to make for the shelter. We were barely to the entrance of the shelter when we heard the explosion of the first bombs. The force threw
us to the ground, and we crawled on all fours to the shelter. It was packed full, as usual. Everyone turned to look at us in astonishment, but before we could utter a word another explosion shook the whole hillside.
Now there was silence. Everyone prayed with folded hands, and God’s name passed from lip to lip in trembling whispers. No one stirred, waiting in fear. The last blast had been so powerful that it must have landed very close to us. We expected the hill to collapse and fall upon us at any moment. The only sound was the crying of the infants. Fear reigned in the shelter.
The sisters began to prepare candles to light in case the electricity gave out. Though no one said it, we all thought that this time the hospital must have been hit. But we did not smell smoke, and when someone opened a door at some distance from the main entrance and looked out, there were no flames to be seen. Yet we were sure that the bomb must have fallen in the immediate vicinity of our hill. We had felt everything shake, and some of us had fallen from our chairs or cots; we were all in a state of shock. It was a lucky thing that we were not buried alive in the earth. The bombing went on longer than ever before. The bright reflection of the snow made the night luminous and provided the bombers with a precise map of the terrain they could hit right on target.
The more seriously ill patients began to faint, and the doctors stood by, giving them injections and other medication. Some wept unrestrainedly. Oh, how everyone at this moment believed in God! How they prayed for help!
It was very late when at last the bombing ceased. Finally we began to get up and straighten ourselves out. We now wondered if we had a place to return to, whether the hospital still stood intact. Everyone seemed reluctant to make the first move, to see what had happened aboveground.
Herr Inspektor and his two daughters had come to the shelter at the first sound of the air raid siren. The sisters looked at him, waiting for his first action. We observed him as he slowly and carefully—almost fearfully—walked to the exit. We waited in silence, impatient to know the truth. The faces of all were haggard, imploring, and yet hopeful of hearing some reassuring news. No one said a word. We all loved the Herr Inspektor.
Sheva's Promise Page 25